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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29389953">Traps of the Mind, Trickles of the Soul</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExploretheEcccentricities/pseuds/ExploretheEcccentricities'>ExploretheEcccentricities</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Also explicit beating, Angst, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Demonic Possession, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Like maybe once or twice?, Look if Varian speaks I am going to put in at least one curse word, Me: What if I posted all my old drafts in one go, Possession, Self-Doubt, Some Cursing, Some lore? Tiny bits, That's like a golden rule in my writing now, Tiny bits of fluff?, Violence, ZT isn't getting much development, attempt at self-harm, no one:</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:16:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,888</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29389953</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExploretheEcccentricities/pseuds/ExploretheEcccentricities</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Quirin has to confront his past...in a way he never expected nor wanted.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Quirin &amp; Varian (Disney)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Traps of the Mind, Trickles of the Soul</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Aaaand yet another work that I accidentally drafted on Discord! I've really posted most of them in one go, a cascade of fics. This was one of my first ones on the Scar Varian Server! Shoutout to all the lovely supportive people there and their encouragements! &lt;3</p><p>This gets dark but has a bittersweet/arguably happy ending! Takes place some time during S3. Quirin's POV. Child Abuse warning! Read the tags please!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He could have done better.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could have done differently</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had been gazing wistfully outside the window as the steady torrent of rain poured and pushed and plunged against the only thing that divided him from the harsh world outside, thunder crackling as the sky lit with infuriated bursts of light. Steady, strong gushes of the torrent trickling down his window, blurring his mind’s eye, before it happened.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The faint sizzling, hissing and clawing and trickling irritably into his ears, blanketed in a frigid puff of breath that blusters with the words it carries. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ah, that's a Brother alright</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The smell of burning flesh slithers into his nostrils, a scent he had thought he would never taste again, and suddenly the world is too cold, his body nothing more than a hollow shell as his wilting conscience tries to scramble for purchase. The world is cold, despite the evident brush of his fur coat, and it is spinning, despite his legs remaining locked in their petrified stance. It’s too cold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin whips around, meeting the eyes of his son, Varian.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So tormented.” Varian speaks, but it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> Varian, not really. Whatever the beast is, whatever creature had crawled into his son’s being, consumed the goodness of his soul and regurgitated a hollow mess of something that was not Varian-it isn’t Varian. It shouldn’t be Varian. The voice is poised with control, smooth and serene in the anticipation of what he has come for. The boy-the woman’s voice is a bare whisper, wispy as a flame despite the clammy hand that is currently latched onto the man’s arm-and Quirin looks down to see the mark of the Brotherhood gleaming in all of its glory, a bright neon blue. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Burning</span>
  </em>
  <span>. His flesh is burning, and yet, he felt so </span>
  <em>
    <span>cold</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Varian’s face is hollow, devoid of the lively smiles, devoid of the fleeting bursts of energy that had once guided his hands to another invention or piece of parchment-an ungloved hand drilling its small fingers into Quirin's bare forearm, clutching it with every ounce of strength it had summoned from the small body and the small boy within and refusing to let go. His eyes glow with the eerie blue as his mark, his pupils invisible from where Quirin tries to see them. His arms remain limp and unmoving at his sides, his head tilted slightly downwards and yet his unseeing, all-seeing eyes locked on Quirin’s own. The head looks too large on his neck, almost as though it could roll off if he wasn’t careful. “So…</span>
  <em>
    <span>reclusive</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Even from his own boy.” The voice is a song, a twisted and treacherous melody low and steady, so sure of where the arrow of their words will skewer him. “Why is that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I think</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it is because you are ashamed.” Varian-the thing, the boy, the woman- pointedly ignores his question and hisses disdainfully instead, allowing a flippant yet graceful roll of the eyes as he-she-they turn away slightly and walk a few steps away, staring at the ground. But then the boy-the thing-his son, Varian, pauses and turns back to him, and for a trepidatious moment, Quirin can feel the treachery behind his son’s eyes… eyes piercing through him, rummaging through the remnants of his thundering heart, thunderous as the anger painting the sky and the anger racing his mind at every attempt to salvage his senses. He steps back, and the feeling withdraws itself as quickly as it came, like the talons of a hungry hawk. Varian wastes no moment in taking a few quick, sudden strides forward, leaning in too close despite the shorter height, mere inches away from Quirin's nose, head raised defiantly and eyes narrowed in accusation. “You have very much to be ashamed of, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quirin of Old Corona</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want any trouble.” Quirin begins, and he wishes that the panic in his eyes doesn’t bleed into his voice, he wishes he can summon the poise he had practiced for years, he wishes he can know what the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> is going on.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Varian-the thing- scoffs, withholding an airy chuckle of mockery. “Clearly, you didn’t. This is quite the lovely home. Though I do wonder how you managed to hide your talents from </span>
  <em>
    <span>everyone</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” She-he-they lift their eyes without moving the rest of Varian’s body, tracing the column behind Quirin to the ceiling above before allowing them to settle onto the horrified man in front. They raise a hand and anchor Varian’s palm under Quirin’s chin roughly, a sharp slap against the skin as his son’s blunt nails claw into his jaw. They pull him forward, closer to the un-Varian eyes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>closer to the un-Varian creature</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Brother</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Did you really think you could hide from me?” They whisper, their voice dripping with a venomous dare, as though challenging him to respond.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin pulls away abruptly, ignoring the faint sting in his chin and the way those eyes remain locked on him unfathomably. “Don’t call me that.” He responds, the first trickles of the horrific realization searing its way through his mind. The thunder and lightning outside crash and clamor with the whistling wind, their tussle echoing throughout the silent earth and its silent witnesses.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That is what you are, isn’t it? A member of the Brotherhood?” Varian prods calmly, not moving as Quirin tries to walk past him and look at him properly without feeling cornered. Cornered. It couldn’t be. It-it wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>possible</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not Varian. Never his Varian. Heart roaring against his rib cage, hands clenched into fists as he refuses to let them tremble, Quirin meets the thing’s eyes, stepping closer to show it that he wasn’t afraid despite the undulating waves of horror coruscating through him relentlessly. That was his boy. His child, Varian. His child, possessed by a </span>
  <em>
    <span>demon</span>
  </em>
  <span>. His son was in danger. Varian's eyes narrow. "You've become so used to hiding that you can't see yourself for what you are."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin doesn't waste another moment. “If I may ask, what are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> hiding, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Zhan Tiri</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Varian’s-the demon’s brows are lax, as though they had expected his response. They nod their head slowly, the beginning of a small smirk upturning their lips. “Clever man. I still don’t understand how you managed to convince everyone that you were an unthinking oaf, though.” The thing rolls Varian’s shoulders as though stretching, and Quirin hears a faint yet sickening </span>
  <em>
    <span>crack</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Well then, this shouldn’t be difficult for you to understand.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, the thing has swooped forward in the blink of an eye, his son’s head bowing and resurfacing in an instant as his eyes gleam brighter than before. They are wide, unblinking, inches away from his nose again. Quirin inhales sharply, steeling and pummeling the instinct to draw back, to lash out-</span>
  <em>
    <span>that was his boy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He couldn’t hurt Varian. He couldn’t dare to risk Varian’s safety. It doesn’t matter if this was a demon he had been raised to lay his life against, the demon painted in a strewn disarray of colors across the temple walls, a demon he only knew from words and memories and images he avoided remembering altogether….</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t need to hide </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” It hisses, its voice straining under the weight of the unleashed and stewing rage. "Soon, I will be finished with my days of hiding. Never again will I be unseen. Never again will I waste my life hiding away in mountains and trees and statues, only dreaming of all I can be. You wouldn’t happen to understand-you already threw yours away, for this-</span>
  <em>
    <span>this scrawny, half-formed mortal</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” They raise their voice, gesturing to Varian’s body in disgust. “The eclipse is coming, Brother, and it is of utmost importance that I am undisturbed when I take the ultimate powers.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin stares into the eyes of someone he loved dearly more than life itself, someone he had had held and rocked and carried and spun and lifted into the sky as he squealed in delight….No, this wasn’t Varian. These were the eyes of someone he had been raised to swing swords at, someone who had sought the very thing that destroyed his home, someone who had chased him out of his own demolished old life to hide behind smiling villagers and trusting kings.  Quirin clasps one of his hands over the other to stop the tremors, hoping the demon doesn’t see the sweat beading at his brow, the sudden sheen of tears that threaten to coat his eyes. “Why are you telling me this?” He says, before the first spark of rage and frustration spikes in his chest. Why his boy? Why Varian of all people? Why him? “Why my son?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because, Brother, your son happens to be connected to a powerful asset that will prove very valuable when this all takes place.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He already translated the scroll. He gave you the incantation.” Quirin responds almost pleadingly. He remembers the day when Eugene had carried a half-conscious Varian home, dangling by his arms as he collapsed into his father's embrace, curling in on himself as Eugene told Quirin of everything that had happened. Quirin didn't want his son meddling in matters such as these. Quirin wanted his boy as far away from all of this as possible. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not talking about any scroll or incantation, Quirin.” The demon leans forward, and its breath is ice against Quirin’s nose. “I’m talking about </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin’s heart nearly stutters to a halt. “What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t have a war without soldiers, Quirin.” They continue. “You can reclaim your allegiance to the moonstone and its wielder now, or…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She puppeteers his son like a master, so swift and sudden when his small fingers curl unpracticed and carelessly around the knife laying at the kitchen counter. Within seconds, Quirin’s boy stands between life and death, the cold and unyielding blade pressed firmly and readily against his jugular. Varian’s skin is taut under it as the slightest curve presses to the extent where it can break the skin if pushed only a millimeter more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You can watch your son pay for it, just as you did with your home and brethren.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin’s breath hitches, gasping and taking an instinctive first step forward as a shrill cry of helplessness accidentally escapes before he can staunchly cut it off. “NO! Not him, please!”  The events seem to be playing out before they have even happend-the worst of images sear into Quirin's mind, eliciting tears to his eyes as he imagines his son's small form, limply slumped against the counter as his glassy eyes stare into nothingness, the steady stream of blood gushing out and trickling down his dishevelled shirt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The demon throws Varian’s head back to an alarmingly abnormal angle, laughs in a manner that echoes loud and clear with mocking jeer at his misery, in tandem to the thunder outside. “I’m afraid I have as little choice as you do, Brother.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please. You-you don’t have to do that.” Quirin pleads, mind whirring in a frantic search of ideas. What to do-</span>
  <em>
    <span>what to do?</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Varian!” The father cries out desperately, hoping some sliver of his screams will reach his son’s ears, his perhaps sleeping soul-his silent, </span>
  <em>
    <span>silenced</span>
  </em>
  <span> soul. “Varian, son, can you hear me?” Could Varian hear him? Was his son witnessing this whole ordeal, or has he been overpowered easily and coaxed into a painless, peaceful slumber? Would Varian feel anything at all if Quirin reacted to the demon, tried to stop Varian himself?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The demon doesn’t move, doesn’t blink even. The dreaded knife remains pressed threateningly against Varian’s jugular, the small fingers securely wrapped around it in a clutch so tight the knuckles are white.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, he can hear you alright, Quirin." The demon chuckles lightly, but it is hollow, as devoid of life as Varian's unblinking eyes, sunken in their sockets and a stark blue against his pale, ashen face. "He can hear, feel, smell everything he normally would if not under my…guidance. He is trapped in this body, unable to do anything but </span>
  <em>
    <span>listen quietly</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>obey</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It must be nice for a change, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The thought of his son seeing him like this-of real Varian’s terrified eyes, glistening with tears he cannot weep and words he cannot convey, staring back helplessly in as tense of a breathless anticipation as his father, who stands uselessly in front of him, with something as precious as his life in the meager hands only built for swords and splitting mauls-coruscates a sharp chill down Quirin’s spine, straight into his chest as every pulse viciously tears down his weaning hope and composure by the second. He tries to breathe deeply, tries to quench the distress and despair and sheer </span>
  <em>
    <span>rage</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so similar to the one he had felt when Cassandra had kidnapped Varian-how </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare</span>
  </em>
  <span> she possess his boy? How dare she take advantage of an innocent soul who had done her no harm, a giving and kindred spirit, and so carelessly threaten to force him to take his own life? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What kind of father was he-unable to protect his boy from himself and the treacherous past that would forever haunt him until the last of his days?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Varian, please!” Quirin attempts again, though he fears it is for nothing. His voice cracks, and he quickly shuts his mouth, fearing his tears will bleed into his voice, and give Varian only more fright. He had to be strong. For his son.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The demon’s lips turn upwards into a cruel grin again, baring its teeth, and Varian’s hands being to tremble and quake uncontrollably as the knife moves away from his throat only slightly, as though being bound by something stronger. The sign of resistance is fleeting, a quick yet aimless tussle for control as the demon stills his hands forcibly and returns his head to facing his father once more. The light in his eyes flickers and flashes, before stilling into the same bright blue as before.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He can try fighting all he likes. But we both know he isn’t strong enough to stand on his own. He never was.” The demon taunts shamelessly, rubbing the edge of the blade teasingly along the side of the boy’s neck and leaving a thin stream of crimson red trickling steadily down his collar, the stain blossoming into the new shirt. Varian had been so excited to wear it-he had fussed over it in the mirror for what felt like days, asking Quirin if he looked more grown up, if he looked taller than he actually was. His son had always been in such a hurry to grow up, whilst his father had gently coaxed him back into the safety of their own home, wanting nothing more than to be able to console Varian and himself with the possibility that he could keep them safe forever, keep Varian a child forever. And Varian </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a child. Varian is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quirin’s child</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Quirin’s boy. His boy, under this awful enchantment, playing the puppet by a demon. His boy, who must be so alone and afraid right now, with a knife in his hands. His boy, who could be in so much more pain if Quirin didn’t act quickly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Swear it, Brother. Reclaim your past, your allegiance, your true vows and your </span>
  <em>
    <span>honor</span>
  </em>
  <span>." The demon in his boy's body coaxes. "Reclaim the life you once had, the life you could still have once I have the ultimate power and restore you all to your rightful places in my ranks. Esteemed warriors, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>incredible</span>
  </em>
  <span> position and power-the titles you and your brethren truly </span>
  <em>
    <span>deserve</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I can make you all immortal, have you and your precious son live together forever, and never worry for the slightest scratch on the boy’s head.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin tries to block out his ears from the sweet promises, the lies that he knows the demon is capable of weaving and knitting into the vast fabric of his endless worries. He knows better than to entertain what she says…and he could very well be dooming both himself and Varian if he’s not careful enough….but…now, standing here helpless to her whims and whispers, he feels enticed, entranced even. Her voice rings softly in his ears, growing louder by the minute, and Quirin finds himself unable to take his eyes off his son.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Or would you rather choose Corona, and let your son suffer in this-this </span>
  <em>
    <span>pathetic</span>
  </em>
  <span> mortal form, in this </span>
  <em>
    <span>cave</span>
  </em>
  <span> of a home where his talents would be wasted on machines and farm labor if I allow him to live?” Quirin slowly blinks and tries to turn his head away, not caring if the demon does see what his eyes truly hold, not caring if whatever is in his heart is laid bare for her mind to fathom and scrutinize. There was no point. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No point</span>
  </em>
  <span>…unless….</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is that what you want?” The demon presses, more irritated than ever before. Her voice escalates, and the thing leans forward in his boy’s body, the knife still clutched in his hands and yet safely away from his neck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Go on, Quirin. I want to hear you say it, one more time. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> needs to hear it. Tell your boy that you would choose your kingdom over him, again. Tell him that you would gladly deny him a freedom outside this wretched life you’ve crafted for him from nothing but sticks and stones.” Varian’s hands tremble again, this time so much that he nearly drops the knife. He turns his head away, eyes closed and head downturned as he shakes his head, before resuming the empty stare at his father. “Tell him you like him better this way-a silent and obedient little mite, who stays out of trouble and knows better than to dabble in the true powers he is capable of.” The boy inhales sharply, and the demon retreats somewhere inside of him, where Quirin cannot see her pulling strings and pushing cogs that ought not to be touched. “I am doing you both a </span>
  <em>
    <span>favor</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I am giving you an opportunity to become more than what you are, to reach outside the prison your kings and princesses have you believe you’re safe in and fulfill your </span>
  <em>
    <span>true destinies</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What parent wouldn’t want that for their child?” The demon picks up the knife and slowly caresses it along Varian’s wrist this time, tracing the visible veins from where they seem to pop out against his frail skin as the eyes remain level with Quirin’s.  “What father wouldn’t want that for his boy?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Do you hear that, Varian? It seems </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dad</span>
  </em>
  <span> is still hesitating, even when it comes to the matter of your life." The demon chuckles deeply this time, mocking his name on her tongue. "Your daddy dearest would rather you </span>
  <em>
    <span>die</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, it happens. A small sob. It’s so sudden, so fleeting, so barely audible that if Quirin had spoken in response he would have missed it. It is a quiet, breathless thing, having so quickly escaped and so quickly caged back in, accompanied by a sniffle and a rapid downturn of the lips as they open out of their own accord and are forced shut again. The light flickers and fades, flickers and fades, so close and yet so far again from the boy he knows it to be. A silent tear slips down his son’s face-a ghastly, dark, small tear, crashing and crumbling the father’s world in one slip more than the downpour outside, the storm raging within.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He has only one thing he can truly rely on, if he rummages hard enough through the memories of his smiling son, the memories of Hector and Adira lashing and lunging their swords at him during sparring practice, the memories of Edmund glowering down at them sternly and launching into his rambles about the legends of demons and powers and scientists too surreal to be real.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t give her anything she wants-making a promise to that demon is like drinking poison and expecting her to die. You must weaken the very thing that she possesses, kill a part of her magic by silencing and making useless the thing from which she derives power…” Edmund had said. He held up the carving of the Great Tree, with the painting of Demanitus throwing a spear into its heart and splattering the magic out of the once-thriving being.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Make useless the thing from which she derives power.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin takes a deep breath, mind numbing and body stilling as he prepares himself for what he is about to do. He has to do it. For his boy. He has to save Varian’s life, quite possibly by doing the worst thing in his own life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you decided, Brother?” The demon coaxes impatiently.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Yes. I have.” Quirin breathes, pacing out his answer monotonously as he keeps his eyes locked on his son and moves forward slowly. “And I’ve decided-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In that swift, unstoppable second, Quirin grabs the wrist with which Varian had been holding the knife, wrenching it out of his grasp and into his own. He doesn’t hesitate before swiping it roughly against Varian's shoulder, tearing at the clothing as the demon-the boy-his child-gasps at the sudden, inescapable agony and horror, one hand rapidly coming to claw at  Quirin's deathly grip before bracing themselves against the counter as Varian's knees threatened to buckle.  The blood flows smooth and rich onto the garment. The demon-</span>
  <em>
    <span>his Varian</span>
  </em>
  <span>- looks up at him, the light in his eyes glowing just a bit more dimly than before, and Quirin leans forward, trying to appear as steadfast and determined as possible. “That it’s time for you to leave my boy </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The demon heaves for breath, trying to force Varian to scramble for purchase and collect himself before looking up at Quirin with something akin to admiration. Slowly though, the familiar, cruel, taunting grin reappears, eyes wide and bright as they challenge him adamantly. “Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>Brother</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” The voice taunts, dripping with its false sweetness, its empty promises. “It’s going to take a lot more than </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> for this little rat to be free of me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin swings his fist directly into Varian’s jaw, not enough to unhinge it but earning a sharp and loud crack nonetheless as the boy’s head nearly flies off his shoulders and rolls limply at it sperch on his twig-like neck, as his body heaves and quakes like a puppet. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A puppet</span>
  </em>
  <span>. If he didn’t do this, his Varian would die. An injured Varian was better than a dead one. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Steeling himself resolutely, Quirin swings harder again, at a different area, and this time, a loud cry that sounded like Varian-</span>
  <em>
    <span>his Varian was in pain</span>
  </em>
  <span>-resounds as Quirin feels his fist drill into his son’s soft, malleable skin, eliciting another series of choked cries intermingled with shrieks of anger-was it the demon or his boy? Who did those cries of pain belong to? Quirin violently quells the urge to stop, an intense and inescapable, excruciating and unpalatable agony that bustles in his heart and tears it apart as it claws its way through his body like a fire with no reprieve. He quells the urge to allow his tears out of their cage just yet-he quells the urge to drop to his knees and cradle his son to his chest, shield him from the horrors of the world. Because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> do that. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not yet</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Varian is on the ground now, hair hanging over his eyes as his arms struggle to brace his weight against the cold hard floor, which is also speckled with droplets of red. “You foolish mortal.” He chuckles, spitting out blood. “You would hurt your own child? All because you can’t deny that what I said was true?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin brings his foot up, and, swallowing away the thick lump in his throat, hesitantly presses his boot down onto Varian’s back. The boy thrashes and squirms under his weight, and it reminds a morose Quirin of an animal being held down for slaughter, a bug wriggling futile under the weight of his being. Such a practice had once made Quirin feel powerful, intoxicated with the dark promise of such power and control over another, wielding his sword as he had held down a troublesome foe. Now, it is just another sword to his own chest, carving out any hope in his heart, surging a wave of nausea through his stomach and bile up his throat as he tries to look down at his dear boy through the burning blur of tears-</span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s my boy, it will be, once I save him, once all of this is over, Varian I love you so much, God I’m so sorry…</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is my final warning, Zhan Tiri.” Quirin speaks lowly and as steadily as possible, despite how his voice shakes with withheld sobs. “I am willing to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> for my boy. Leave </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or I will have no choice but to follow-through with </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> decision. For Varian’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>destiny</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He spits out the word in distaste despite the tears finally spilling over his cheeks at the sight of his son’s still glowing blue eyes glaring back at him accusingly from where they had sunk into the blackening bruises encircling them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you know why we are here, Quirin? Do you know why </span>
  <em>
    <span>your son</span>
  </em>
  <span> is here?” The demon demands, though it still carries its eerily calm demeanour in its fluid voice. “It’s because </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> failed him as a father, which is also why he failed you as a son.” Varian trembles, quakes, and small whimpers begin corrupting the perfect sentences once again, the eye upturned as they seem to flicker, the pupils now visible and rolling back in their sockets before flickering yet again-and Quirin catches a glimpse of Varian’s real eyes-his beautiful, familiar, human blue eyes. Steady streams of tears trickle down his freckled cheeks, the skin of which blossom in deep purple and red hues. “Do you know what I see when I’m in this boy’s mind, Quirin?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I see nothing but deep fear, and a desire to prove himself, and yes-</span>
  <em>
    <span>adoration</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I see </span>
  <em>
    <span>your eyes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Quirin. I see your eyes in his mind, in his heart, in his every thought and doubt. I see you all the time. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> sees you all the time. He watches you, for your approval, your praise, your affections, your words. He too agreed to this, so that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> wouldn’t be hurt. He lays his life down for you, and you repay him by beating him, shunning him, leaving him on his own so that he can get possessed by me, spitting down at him.” A louder, more shrill sob escapes Varian’s mouth, ripe with fresh despair and crackled with another mouthful of blood. “But I will be generous. I will make sure the last thing he sees is your eyes, Quirin. Because I clearly care more about his wellbeing than you ever could. I will give this poor child a happy ending, a rightful ending, something that you never could. Because you </span>
  <em>
    <span>failed</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Quirin. You failed then, and you’re going to fail now. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Because Varian doesn’t deserve you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Every word sears into Quirin’s chest and shatters another cord trying to reign his sanity in. He grits his teeth, clenches his jaw so that the sudden pour of tears trekking rapidly down his face feels more scalding than the words that feed his greatest fears, the greatest pains that kept him up all night-of never being enough. Of never being enough for Varian-that perhaps, his child did deserve better. His child deserved the </span>
  <em>
    <span>world</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and all Quirin could ever give was himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he could never be enough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The thought enlivens the sudden, dizzying surge of adrenaline tingling and coursing throughout his being, and Quirin suppresses a sob as he feebly kicks the boy’s stomach, leaving him breathless and choking on his dishevelled, discordant bout of sobs. Another sharp cry-no, it still </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> properly </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> Varian. She’s just allowing small bits and pieces, small slivers and broken parts of Varian to resurface to guilt-trip him. He-he’s not hurting his son…he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>….</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dad.” The watery voice calls, thick and fractured with breathless whimpers and uncontrollable sobs as it pleads and punctures Quirin’s aching heart. “Daddy, please </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I can’t-</span>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>-“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin’s resolve wilts, knees buckling as he dares to allow himself and his son some reprieve, hands hovering hesitantly over Varian’s crumpled form. It must be over-Varian spoke to him, didn’t he? Varian was fine now-he could tend to his boy’s wounds, and they could both laugh over it one day, some day. He reluctantly winds his arm around Varian’s middle, gently lifting him up slowly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The boy raises his head…and spits in Quirin's face. “Try again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Brother</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” The demon whistles, chortles, shrieks with laughter as it mingles with Varian’s shrieks of despair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The world descends into a cacophony of ear-splitting screams and laughter, unrhythmic and untimely and unbecoming. There are shrieks of utter anguish and of mockery, sobs of horror and unparalleled excruciation, deep and fractured cries and pleas and curses and names and awful, </span>
  <em>
    <span>awful</span>
  </em>
  <span> things that Quirin frantically batters away to keep himself from latching onto them for too long, for the hope that if he keeps swinging and kicking and hitting and flinging convulsively the words and sounds will never stick, never burn their place into his heart despite how his entire world rages in the fire he had created. Though he takes care not to cause something too serious, Quirin pours everything he has left into every lash, every ounce of tenderness blanketed in a crack that shatters bone, every ounce of despair blustered by a new bruise blossoming here, a new spurt of blood blooming there-everything that he could never give nor take back, everything that he has held back from as he once listened to Varian’s tear-ridden tales of his time while his father had been encased in amber, every ounce of fury he has felt towards Frederic and Edmund and Adira and Princess Rapunzel and Zhan Tiri and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>world</span>
  </em>
  <span> for the situation he now had to be in. Varian </span>
  <em>
    <span>needed</span>
  </em>
  <span> this. For his boy, Varian. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Anything for his boy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He would save his boy, and this time, he’d never let him go again. With palpitating hands and endlessly blurred vision and burning trails of tears still streaming down his cheeks, his eyes wide and refusing to shut at the horrific spectacle he was making, he takes the boy he created, the boy he raised, the boy he had bounced on his lap and kissed to sleep and read stories to and encompassed in his arms-and flings him across the room one last time with the last of his weaning strength, a wave of nausea and exhaustion and pure, unadulterated </span>
  <em>
    <span>terror</span>
  </em>
  <span> consuming him once more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin is unaware of how much he had been screaming along with Varian until he tries to speak next, his throat raw and scalding with words he may never remember and sorrows he will never try to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Besides his heavy breaths and the occasional escape of another sob from somewhere in his chest, there is only silence. Varian is a crumpled heap on the floor, figure wracked with occasional tremors yet having long since quietened, learning that the only one who could listen to his cries would not do so.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin stares at his hands-hands stained with Varian’s blood. His own son. He had just pummeled his own son. He had just-Varian-</span>
  <em>
    <span>Varian was hurt because of him</span>
  </em>
  <span>-was it over? Had he finished it? Had Quirin cut off her source?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tremors consume him sooner than he expected, but a mind-numbing shock begins to seep its way through his mind, painting over and bleeding into the scars he had engraved upon himself-the scars he had forced his boy to bear too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was-there was no excuse for what he did. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No excuse</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He-he was a monster. An unearthly, unholy, murderous monster that failed-that failed at being a father, a knight, a protector, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>person</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>human</span>
  </em>
  <span>. How could he be-when he had done worse to his own son than a literal demon?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin returns his gaze to Varian, cautiously crawling closer to his son so that he hovers above him. Varian’s eyes are half-open, glassy and staring into space, mouth slightly agape and skin even more pale than before. He is almost unrecognizable, every inch of his face specked generously with bruises, blood, or both. A thin yet steady stream leaks out from the corner his mouth. Upon catching a glimpse of Quirin's tear-stained, horrified face, Varian shakes his head numbly, slowly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“N-No.” The small voice pleads, cracked with dryness and exhaustion and tears, and whatever strength the boy has left is used to lift his arms weakly. “P-please, no-</span>
  <em>
    <span>no more</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No more.” Quirin promises, he agrees, he breathes as his eyes quickly scan over the boy for the growing list of concerns and injuries, still trembling himself. A small, startled cry escapes the father as his eyes return to the blood that still trickles down his son’s open mouth, a weak and hoarse and unsure cry strained with the weight of his tears. Then, Quirin gasps again, a deeper breath as he slowly tries to bring his shaking hands to his face. They do not reach it in time before the first scream escapes, despite how his throat absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>aches</span>
  </em>
  <span> from it. It erupts from his tormented soul like a siren, searing like a scalding knife into his own heart with unbridled agony, ringing through its chambers and furiously yanking out the thread of the deathly silence sown in his ears. It resonates through him somehow, and he is still reeling from it when the second scream comes, and then the third, and then the fourth. It is grief and guilt unbound and unleashed, a prolonged, animalistic wail of misery that wrenches from his heart and freely echoes into the deafening silence of the thriving night, dissolving all words, reason, aim, answer, and question. The horror twists readily into his stomach, making it lurch violently, unexpectedly, and the hitch in his breath briefly chokes him, leaves him spluttering on his own. Quirin allows his son’s pain to become his own-to engulf him, smother him completely. It pounds on him from all sides, like a pulsing heart, a bleeding wound that will remain forever open. He throws himself onto the limp form, encapsulating his son's body frantically in his arms as though the touch would make it less real-more reassuring. Burying his face against his son’s shoulder, his tears freely trickle into the soft clothing, soaking through it in a matter of minutes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dad.” Varian finally groans, a faint croak as the ringing silence subsumes them again. The voice is empty, almost robotic. His arms remain limp at their sides. “Dad, don’t cry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My poor boy.” Quirin can only say, reaching up to cup Varian’s face and sweep away the hair obscuring his now normal eyes-now-real, now-safe, now-broken eyes. He tries to collect the broken pieces of his boy, whatever is left of his boy-because at least his boy is alive. He had saved his boy. He had.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dad.” Varian says again, voice rising only slightly. “Dad, wait.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take care of you, I promise.” Quirin splutters, “Nothing is ever going to harm you again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I promise</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have jostled his son so suddenly-not with the broken bones he had. There’s so much going through his mind at once, and not enough clarity, not enough time to salvage it all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I-I know, but....Dad, that hurts.” Varian hisses.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Quirin replies, still in panic and unable to fumble or sift through his words properly. “I’ll just-I think I have something here. It could help. It can. I think-I think it can-“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dad, can you just-“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, no, it can wait. I’ll just make the salve myself-I can make one, I just need-I need-“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dad!” Varian suddenly yells, his voice straining with his volume. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>For once in your life, just shut the fuck up and listen to me!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> The escalated noise makes Quirin stop short more than the actual words do, and Quirin sits back, frozen and staring  in shock. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Varian stares back, eyes softening, “I need someone who actually knows what they’re doing. I don’t-I don’t want to hurt anymore. Please, just get me someone else. I love you, but I need…I need someone else. This-” Varian stutters, coughs up something and wipes it away with the back of his shaking hand. “This isn’t going to work for either of us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Quirin whispers the first thing that comes to his mind, compulsively wrapping his arms around himself when he next feels the urge to embrace his son. It could wait. Whatever he was feeling, whatever he thought on the matter-it could </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They needed time. Varian needed time, and whatever it was his boy needed, Quirin would rush to give to him without question. “Yes, I’ll-I’ll get a doctor.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait!” Varian cries when Quirin gets up to leave. “Don’t leave me alone. Please, don’t leave me alone again.” He stares up at him pleadingly, all traces of the earlier anger and distrust having vanished. Quirin bites his lip, looks towards the doorway and the weaning rain outside, the quieter drizzle echoing through the house. He can’t decide what to do-he can’t understand what Varian wants, he can’t understand how he can be there for his son when </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> isn’t entirely there himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eventually, Quirin decides on carefully, cautiously sifting Varian’s form off the floor and into his arms, quietly requesting the neighbors to alert a doctor for he couldn’t walk the distance himself, and carrying his son to his room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After about an hour of painful silence, Quirin sits at the chair next to Varian’s bedside, head bowed in shame and eyes staring into space as the doctor fusses over Varian’s multiple injuries. He knows he can't bear it if he sees </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> handprints on Varian's neck, </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> knife gash on Varian's shoulder, </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> hearbtreak in Varian's eyes. He faintly registers Varian clasping his hand and squeezing it tightly for comfort…or maybe assurance…or maybe just pity…he couldn’t tell what he felt. He is so engrossed in his own thoughts, in the deep pit of shame at the center of his being that he doesn’t hear Varian fumbling to make excuses for the worst of his injuries, or the doctor ranting about the ointments and tonics and herbs he was prescribing, mere words on a list folded between his fingers. He doesn’t hear himself absent-mindedly agreeing to it all, thanking the man and sending him on his way. He doesn’t hear Varian’s cautious, tentative “Dad?” as he opens the door to head somewhere-</span>
  <em>
    <span>anywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span> but here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dad.” Varian presses again. “Daddy, please answer.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin doesn’t move or turn away-he remains frozen at the doorway, stiff and rigid as a pillar, head still bowed as the first slivers of exhaustion begin to wrestle their way into his posture. How could he show his face to his son, after what he had done to him?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” Varian says quietly, and Quirin blinks in bafflement, furrowing his brow questioningly but not daring to turn around.Why was Varian apologizing? Nevertheless, Quirin remains quiet. It felt  selfish of Quirin to show his son how much he hurt after hurting him. It would be selfish to make it about himself. “I’m sorry it came to all this-I really am. I shouldn’t have been mad at you-I know there must have been a reason for whatever just happened and I dont-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A reason.” Quirin repeats, still numb as he tries to blink away the momentary confusion. “You mean-you don’t know why I did…what I just did?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns back to look at the boy, and much to his surprise, Varian remains frozen in place, a faint pink speckling his cheeks and nose, eyes suddenly glossed with a faint sheen of moisture as his lips tremble.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I-um…Yes, I think I do know. Why…why you did that.” Varian’s voice wavers then, teetering on the edge as though it’s ready to crack.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin pauses before his eyes narrow. “What </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> you think, Varian?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>What do you think of me? What do you think of me, after I hurt you so?</span>
  </em>
  <span>If he promised to do better by his son, he needed to listen to him. If he promised to do better, he needed to hear what Varian needed for himself, however painful or nerve-wracking it truly was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think…I think you knew I deserved it…somehow?” Varian takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his exhausted figure wracks with it, in the visible way he self-consciously squeezes his hands together into an unyielding clasp. “I think…you knew, deep down, that you had to clean up another one of my messes…and I didn’t know what to do, Dad. You-You made me feel so alone, and afraid…and I thought maybe you were just done with me. I thought you were fed up with my mistakes and was looking for an excuse to make me feel a fraction of the pain I’ve caused you and others for so long.” A soft breath escapes the boy, but he persists nevertheless, his voice steadily quieting and trembling more with every word. “I thought you were going to choose the kingdom over me. I thought you would let me bleed to death. I thought you would never </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I thought-“ His lips twitch and twist violently, as though trying too hard to contain something too powerful, and he wraps his arms around himself. “You-you weren’t actually trying to get rid of me, right?” His voice weans off, and Varian bursts into tears-small, stifled, shameful sobs that hack away at Quirin's crumbling numbness.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin stares at the boy in shock, and his feet take off before he can properly acknowledge, finding himself next to his son’s bowed figure, encapsulated him entirely in his arms to that his head rests against his shoulder, and feels the jolt, the rush of terror at the realization that he dares to hold his son and caress his face with the very same hands he beat him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is awful, and doesn’t deserve his kind, giving son, who could only ever see his own faults-he doesn’t deserve Varian, and he had no right-</span>
  <em>
    <span>no right</span>
  </em>
  <span> to cradle his broken body like this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But then Varian allows another open, pained sob, throwing his arms around Quirin’s neck and digging his fingers into the fabric of his shirt, clutching and smoothening it in his fists as he buries his head against his throat and wails the horrors and sorrows left in his broken, beaten, buried heart. His figure trembles and wracks with his sobs, strings of barely comprehensible words filtering in between. And it only makes Quirin clutch him tighter, longer, further into the future he cannot see.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, son.” Quirin breathes, carefully brining a hand to shakily weave through the disheveled mop of hair. Varian is a warm, reposeful, gentle weight on his heart, his familiar breath soothing to his ears, his familiar scent no longer staunch or icy against his nose. “I’m so sorry you thought of it like that. It was nothing like that. I swear it.” And though he knows he has no right to, Quirin continues to hold Varian, allowing them both to sink into the embrace as he revels in having his son with him-broken, yes, but alive, and in one piece. Breathing a gentle kiss to Varian’s patched-up shoulder-the first mark he had ever made on his boy-Quirin rocks them slightly, trying to stem away his own tears. It feels refreshing for once-for the silence to be just </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, without the thundering heart and thundering storm. He hopes the rhythm grounds him-them-in some way, awakens them from the numb stupor they were both drowning in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I told you to stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Varian sobs begrudgingly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know, son. But I had to make sure she no longer possessed you. I had to weaken you for the moment-weakening or depriving her source ensures she doesn’t try possessing it again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s no fucking excuse." Varian instantly replies in the same tone, not lifting his head. "I told you to </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know, and I’m so sorry, son.” Quirin bites his lip, turning his face into his son’s shirt so that his tears seep into the fabric. “I’m so sorry I didn’t stop.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not okay.” Varian replies adamantly, before clutching him harder. “Gosh, I’m-I’m so sorry, Dad! I'm so sorry you couldn't stop!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop apologizing. None of this was your fault, do you hear?” Quirin speaks, pulling away to hold Varian by the shoulders-gently, of course. “You were right-we need other people-we need </span>
  <em>
    <span>help</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I should have been more careful and taken care of this-taken care of you. Tomorrow we’ll go over to the palace, and we’ll tell your friends everything, and perhaps they’ll find other methods to help you-to help us. We can’t risk something like that again. I won’t ever do something like this to you ever again, I swear.” He cups his son’s face between his palms, bringing his forehead forward and peppering it with kiss after kiss.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry, my boy.” Quirin whispers between kisses. “I’m so sorry I hurt you, my child.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be more careful too.” Varian sniffles, holding onto his arm and hiding against his shoulder as though it could protect him from the world. “You don’t deserve to go through this alone. I’m sorry for snapping at you. You were only trying to help.” He pats Quirin’s cheek awkwardly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry for letting you be vulnerable to a demon.” Quirin sighs, capturing his son’s knuckles into a quick kiss before rubbing his hand along his back as he felt his head settle against his shoulder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I ate your ham sandwich earlier today. I didn’t know it was yours until it was too late.” Varian sniffles again, rubbing absently at his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin frowns but chooses not to question it, taking his time patting Varian’s back until the pace of his breaths and pulsating heart calmed considerably.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I don’t deserve you, my boy.” Quirin finally says aloud, but Varian doesn’t answer, having fallen fast asleep mere moments ago.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Smiling, Quirin wipes away his tears, unable to stop more from seeping out as his smile quickly fades. Something about today will remain etched into his heart-not the cold, not the smell of burning flesh. He would sometimes hear the screams, sometimes remember Varian’s accusatory glares, sometimes remember the witch. But he will also remember the way Varian clutched onto him with unfaltering trust-with resolute trust in him despite the marks on his small body and the mark on Quirin’s large hand. He will remember the warmth and silence of the night. He will remember quietly gazing out the window once more, wondering what else he would have to protect his son from.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quirin wonders if he will ever be good enough for Varian.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could have done better.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could have done differently</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But as long as his boy was safe in his arms, Quirin would try to do the best he possibly could.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So I really looked at everything and went from "mind trap possesses Quirin and Varian has to fight him" to "Zhan Tiri possesses Varian and Quirin has to beat him" and I have no regrets...I think.</p><p>Apologies if this isn't similar to mu usual works, I didn't want to leave it out even though it feels like months!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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